Emily Yoffe (Enjoy Video)

Latest Updates About Emily Yoffe: Emily Yoffe (born 1955) is a journalist, a regular contributor to Slate magazine and the NPR radio show Day to Day. She has also written for The New York Times, O, The Oprah Magazine, The Washington Post, and many other publications. Yoffe began her career as a staff writer at The New Republic.

She writes a regular feature on Slate called “Human Guinea Pig”, where she takes reader suggestions for strange activities or hobbies to try, and an advice column called “Dear Prudence”. For “Human Guinea Pig”, she has tried hypnosis[1], a vow of silence[2], and get-rich-quick schemes from spam[3]. She has become a telephone psychic[4], a street performer[5], a nude model for an art class [6], and a contestant in the Mrs. America beauty pageant[7].
In June 2005, Bloomsbury published Yoffe’s What the Dog Did: Tales from a Formerly Reluctant Dog Owner. That year it was named Best Book of the Year by Dogwise, and selected as the Best General Interest Dog Book by the Dog Writers Association Of America.
She was a guest on “The Colbert Report” in 2006 discussing her experiences as Slate’s Human Guinea Pig.

On June 25, 2007, Yoffe wrote an op-ed piece for The Washington Post questioning the fear surrounding anthropogenic global warming, charging Al Gore with orchestrating a “campaign … [of] fright and absolutes.”[8] She was criticized by The Daily Howler for writing about a theory based largely on numerical evidence despite having recently written an article about herself titled “The Math Moron” in which she revealed that she tested at a first-grade level in mathematics.[9] [10] Yoffe recently wrote an article, “But Enough About You …What is narcissistic personality disorder, and why does everyone seem to have it?” where she discusses how narcissistic characteristics have added to America’s economic downturn.
Yoffe grew up in Newton, Massachusetts and graduated from Wellesley College in 1977.

My Husband’s Other Wife

Shortly after my husband John and I were married, on a day he was at work and I was home moving my things into his house, I opened a cardboard box in the attic. It was filled with photos of his other married life, the one he’d had with his first wife, Robin Goldstein. She was 28 when they got married, and six months later she was diagnosed with breast cancer. My husband was nursing her at home when she died just after her 34th birthday. The box contained wedding photos, honeymoon photos, and random snapshots of parties and birthdays. As I excavated, I could chart her illness by her hair—a cycle of dark waves, then wigs and scarves. After I’d looked at them all I closed the box and cried for her, and for my guilty awareness that her death allowed me, five years later, to marry the man I loved.
When our daughter was born, one of the sweetest gifts we got was a tiny chair with her name painted on the back. It was from the Goldstein family. How final it must have felt to them to send this acknowledgement of John’s new life. Robin had wanted children, but her long illness and the brutal treatments made that impossible.
All of us exist because of a series of tragedies and flukes. I’m here because 80 years ago my grandfather’s wife, Ruth, died suddenly of the flu, leaving him a young widower with a toddler and an infant. (They say he had to be restrained from jumping into her grave.) Eventually he remarried to my grandmother, and my mother was born. My grandmother banished all traces of Ruth. Her sons had no contact with Ruth’s relatives, displayed no photos of her. It was if she never existed. At the end of my grandfather’s long life—he lived to be 95—his distant past became more present to him, and he began to tell stories about Ruth. My grandmother was more incredulous than angry. “Can you imagine?” she told me. “Do you know how long she’s been dead?” Read More.